With a whimpering gasp, my over-wound body spills over the edge, soaking her shorts and probably the duvet.
I should stop, but I don’t. I can’t. The heat is overwhelming, all-consuming, and my body thrums taut with need.
All I can think of is how she felt around me, the softness of her breasts in my hands, the sharpness of her grip as she threw me around, easily as if I were a doll.
The waves of heat carry me through two more climaxes—I think. It’s hard to tell where one ends and the next begins, what’s release and what’s that endless dripping…
It’s thirst more than satiety that finally drags me out of bed. I down a water bottle from the mini fridge as I survey the damage.
Christine’s shorts took the worst of it—a thought that sends another pang through my partly softened cock. The wet spot on the duvet ishorrificallyembarrassing, but… probably salvageable.
These shorts, on the other hand…
I wear them into the shower, setting the water as cold as it will go. As I peel the shorts off, I try to not think about just how much cum slicks my cock, only half looking as I run the fabric under the water. I wring them out, then wash them again. I slide her tank top off over my head, then repeat the same process.
After I hang them over the curtain bar, I step under the cold flow, letting it wash over my head as I brace my hands against the tile wall.
My skin still feels overhot.
Fuck.Fuck.
I stand there until violent shivers send painful cramps through my muscles, and I finally turn the water off. Wrapped in a towel for my hair and another around my waist, I pad back out into my room.
Three AM.
Couple hours to kill.
Fatigue pulls me toward the bed, but I sink into the chair by the window instead. It looks over the parking lot, where weeds grow out through cracked asphalt under a flickering street lamp.
I don’t trust my dreams tonight.
I pull out my phone, and my fingers drift to social media—to the account where Mom still posts about her holiday baking projects, her scrapbooking parties, her book club.
It’s where I go whenever I feel like torturing myself.
I scroll back through the seasons; it’s been a while since I checked in.
Dad smiles at a baseball game. Mom and my sister sit next to the Christmas tree. Fresh hydrangeas from the garden rest cheerily in a vase. Rusty, our terrier, is going grey, but is no less fierce in chasing squirrels out of the yard.
I stop scrolling, but the memories don’t stop playing.
Mom sings to me as I sit on her lap, crying after scraping my knee. Dad lets me flip through his record collection, and I reverently slide out one of the oldest ones, not knowing I’m about to hear my favorite band for the first time. My sister and I throw a stuffed bunny back and forth in the yard, playing keep-away with Rusty.
I don’t know if things would’ve been different if I’d been born a beta like my sister.
I’ll never know.
I just wish I hadsomeoneto ask for advice. Someone who would actually listen to what I want, someone not already poised to tell me,that’s why omegas can’t have jobs like yours.
That’s why omegas can’t have dreams like yours.
Dream smaller, Mylo.
I remember the first time Mom told me that. I was buzzing after gymnastics practice, proud of my instructor telling me I was ready for competition, rambling about going to the Olympics someday.
Dream smaller, Mylo. There’s so much happiness already here.
I know how she meant it. To take pleasure in life’s little joys, to not push yourself to meet someone else’s standards.
